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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

She looked around at the hideous wallpaper, the ugly, dark furniture, that glaringly bad carpet. All would go. With the wall down and a new, top-of-the-range kitchen, the place would be transformed. She stood and did a circle of the room. In her mind’s eye, the French doors were replaced with bifold, the walls a pale cream, the floor… oak, maybe.

She felt a thrill of excitement and barely managed to get her widow’s expression in place when the door opened, and Portia sailed into view. ‘Good morning.’

The mug Allison raised in front of her face gave her the seconds needed to compose herself, to force the corners of her mouth downward. Lack of sleep would make her look pale; it always did. That too would work in her favour. ‘Hi, can I get you a coffee?’

Portia closed the distance between them and reached out to lay her hands over Allison’s. ‘You look wretched, you poor thing. Sit. There’s no need to wait on me, I can help myself.’

Allison was happy to do as she was bid. She sat and continued her redesign of the room, vaguely aware of the sound of Portia pottering in the kitchen. Lost in mental colour charts, it wasn’t until Portia’s puzzled face appeared around the edge of the doorway that she realised her mobile was ringing.

‘Would you like me to answer it?’

‘No.’ The word was baldly abrupt. Allison pushed the corners of her mouth down again, managing a slight quiver of her lower lip as she did so. ‘Sorry. I was lost in thoughts of Peter.’ The phone continued to ring. She reached for it. A number she didn’t recognise. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Fellowes?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Sally Bennet. I’m your police liaison officer. I’m so sorry for your loss and want to assure you I’ll help you as much as I can to negotiate the various official channels.’

‘Thank you.’ Allison felt Portia’s eyes on her and slid her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the police liaison.’ With a nod, as if to say she’d guessed, Portia vanished back into the kitchen. ‘So what happens now?’

‘Your husband’s body is in the mortuary of the Royal on Whitechapel Road. I can pick you up, if you’d like, or if not, I can meet you there.’

Only a day in and Allison was already growing weary of the enforced pretence. Bad enough having Portia constantly assessing her, slotting her into some predestined psychological category and possibly wondering why Allison didn’t quite fit. The police liaison, more used than Portia to seeing grief, might be more difficult to fool. The less time spent with her the better. ‘Thank you, I have a friend with me. We’ll get a taxi.’

Afterwards, as Portia had suggested, Allison would knock back a few glasses of champagne. In memory of Peter… and to toast her future.

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